Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Page 6

  Jeff and I were en route to Delhi from Beijing. Only one country in and we were already past the point of needing to sustain idle conversation. I glanced over at his laptop as he punched in lines of code—ellipses, dollar signs, quotation marks, and semi-colons interspersed with words that meant nothing to me—without distraction. I admired his work ethic. Picking up his camera, I looked through his photos from the past couple days.

  They were incredible. I had never known Jeff to be a photographer, but his shots had great depth of field and followed the Rule of Thirds. The one he took of me splayed out across the Great Wall captured my vulnerability in a way that made my cheeks grow flush. Had I not been the subject of this photo I would’ve told him how beautiful I thought it was, but complimenting him on a photo of myself seemed narcissistic.

  When we emerged from the airport, all at once my ears were filled with noise. Bollywood music, exhaust pipes, honking from every direction, bicycle bells, hawkers selling their wares, cussing, yelling, the screech of bad brakes, and the squeals of children chasing each other around street vendor stalls. I could smell chai spices mixed with incense, exhaust, and urine. There was so much activity going on around me that I didn’t know where to look.

  My friend Rati, who I knew from college, met us at the airport in Delhi, where a driver was waiting to take us back to her home. She had an oval-shaped face with thin lips, big eyes, and dark wavy hair, and at 5’3” she was petite. Wearing skinny jeans, sandals, and a short-sleeved cotton blouse in a deep shade of purple, she looked like she hadn’t aged a bit. Rati was born and raised in India but spoke amazing English because she was educated at an English-medium school. The first time I met her at school I thought she was British because of her posh accent, but she quickly corrected me.

  “This is Jeff,” I said to Rati after giving her a hug.

  “Howdy,” Jeff said, extending his hand.

  “A cowboy…nice,” she remarked as they shook hands. Then she turned to me with a raised, questioning eyebrow and gestured toward Jeff.

  I shook my head at her as we hopped in the car.

  As we drove off, I noticed that the chaos in the street was similar to China, but Delhi was different still. The poverty was evident. So rampant in fact that people lived stacked on top of each other and every nook and crevice seemed to be occupied. Crumbling cinder blocks and gaping holes in the walls of buildings would have left these structures abandoned in the United States, and yet here they seemed very much lived in. Walls and columns stained and damaged by rainwater covered almost every building, and clothing was hung out to dry on every porch and balcony. Storefronts were littered with tattered and torn advertisements for everything from old movies and concert events to Red & White brand cigarettes and Cadbury milk chocolate. Kids with palm-sized tears in their shirts and bare feet begged for money at the car window whenever we stopped in traffic.

  “Poverty is a business,” Rati said, warning me not to give them any money.

  “One in desperate need of support, don’t you think?” I asked.

  Handing me a large bag full of small bags crackers, she said, “You never know where the money will end up but they could probably use some food.” I took the bag from her and quickly distributed the small bags into the tiny hands peaking through the crack in my window. “Tell me, how was your trip? Where have you been? I can’t believe you’re in India! What made you decide to come?”

  “I’m actually piggybacking on a trip Jeff planned to go on alone. We’re traveling on a one-way ticket around the world,” I replied. “We started in China, came here, then we’re off to Jordan, Italy, Peru, and Brazil.”

  After my parents’ death, Rati became like a sister to me, checking in on me every day, bringing me food and movies to numb the pain, and occasionally forcing me out into the sunlight.

  I was in my first year at Columbia having coffee with Rati on the Upper East Side of Manhattan and discussing how my boyfriend had ambushed me into letting him move in when I got the call from my parents’ attorney and family friend, Eli Bader, telling me about their accident. Without hesitation, Rati flew with me to Houston and got me though the funeral before finally heading back to school at my insistence. She had missed an entire week of classes and had to reschedule a ton of interviews but never once complained about it. I wondered how she would handle my diagnosis.

  I shifted my gaze out the window and watched as a cow pulled a barrel filled with wheat. Something in the way this cow’s legs moved, slow and with heavy, thudding steps, made the whole scene feel unnatural—like the owner meant to use a horse but blindly saddled a cow, and the cow knew it.

  I pointed out the window. “I thought cows were sacred?”

  “Just because they’re sacred doesn’t mean they can’t be used for practical purposes,” she said, almost as an aside. “Have you traveled much before?” Rati said, turning to Jeff.

  “I’ve been to a few places,” Jeff replied. “ Amsterdam and Paris, and Athens and Mexico when I was a kid with my parents.”

  “I take it Paris and Amsterdam were with an ex?” she asked.

  “Rati has a slew of theories regarding love and relationships,” I injected before Jeff could answer.

  “Just so we’re clear, the PhD at the end of my name kind of makes me an expert on these matters,” Rati smiled, mocking herself.

  “She’s a blogger,” I explained. “Actually, you two kind of have that in common. Jeff’s a programmer.”

  “What was your dissertation on?” Jeff asked.

  “The new balancing act modern Indian women have adopted in a need to protect the self while still being able to forge deep and meaningful relationships with others,” she replied. “Over the last six years I’ve interviewed over 2,000 women in India, from mothers to CEOs.”

  “My favorite parts of her research are the discussions on sex. How women evolved past the fairy tales of love and moved towards the male perspective of sex being an act of pure lust,” I said.

  “They actually talk to you about their sex lives?” Jeff asked.

  “Yes,” Rati said. “But you have to consider that over the course of years, I’ve built quite a rapport with these women and I am as open with them as they are with me.”

  Rati was a few years older than I. We met in a coffee shop when I was still an undergrad at NYU and I’d accidentally taken her drink thinking it was mine. She laughed it off and asked me if I wanted to share a table. Rati divulged that she had crush on the barista, who, coincidentally, I’d dreamt about as well—and the floodgates were open. Our hour-long conversation covered everything from worst kisses to optimal sexual positions. Never before had I laughed so much with someone I’d just met.

  “I’m pretty sure the sex talk was how we became friends,” I said. “You told me you’d had dreams about you and the barista…on the counter…after hours…”

  “That I did,” Rati reminisced. “But didn’t he ask you out at a party once?”

  “Yeah, but I was dating Calvin remember? We had a whole discussion about fantasy hook-ups and whether it was wrong or not to cheat if it was purely physical.”

  “Right,” she said. I looked at Jeff whose eyes were wide with interest, but he didn’t say anything.

  “One of my many regrets from college, considering what a dick Calvin turned out to be.”

  As the gate to her home opened and we pulled into the driveway, I felt like we were stepping into an oasis. The semi-circular cobblestone driveway was surrounded by deciduous trees with small white flowers in bloom. There was an array of botanical flowers, organized into groupings by type, which decorated the trunks of the trees below. When our driver pulled directly into the carport I realized he wasn’t just a driver, he was Rati’s personal driver. After finishing her PhD at NYU, she moved back to Delhi and was living with her parents, so technically it was their home, but regardless, it was beautiful. Just inside the front door, the house opened up into a large living room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked
out onto a garden. There was a set of staircases flanking the entrance that led to our three adjacent rooms upstairs. Starting in the far right was a large study with two office desks and an impressive library; Rati’s, mine, and Jeff’s rooms were all in a row. There was a bathroom next to a set of double doors leading to the master bedroom. Downstairs, the kitchen, servants’ quarters, and dining room were on one side, the living room was in the middle, and on the other side was an indoor jacuzzi and gym.

  There couldn’t have been a starker contrast to the world outside. Modern in structure, the house was accented in antiquity. A wooden bookshelf with hand-carved latticework on the sides and an equally ornate front was only one of many intricate pieces of furniture. On the back wall was a huge Rauschenberg piece and opposite that were three numbered Warhol prints. In addition to those extraordinary pieces, they also had a painting by Tagore, a famous 19th century poet who developed the Bengal School of Art and subsequent style. They had a cook, two maids, and a round-the-clock driver.

  For all these amenities, certain conveniences were noticeably missing; dishes were still done by hand, even though the kitchen was as modern as the rest of the house, and I was mortified to find that my clothes would be washed by a servant and then hung to dry.

  “Wait, you mean my underwear is going to be washed by a stranger and then hung outside for everyone to see?” I asked.

  Rati waved me off, saying, “Whatever, you’ll get used to it. Besides, sun-dried clothing actually smells better.”

  “How come no dryer?” I asked.

  “They’re not common here. Electricity is not reliable, and neither is water for that matter,” she said.

  The bathrooms were small, with the shower, toilet, and sink all pressed together in a confined space so that when the shower was on, everything became wet. Minimalist, some might call it, but luxurious in a country where most people still used a bucket and pail. Feeling sticky from the flight, I washed quickly before we reconvened in the dining area for a home-cooked Indian lunch. The aroma of curry and spice filled my nostrils, and I found myself salivating. There was nothing more appealing to me than an authentic home-cooked meal, and the unfamiliar spices added a whole new hue to the color wheel of my tasting palette.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Rati said, as we sat on three sides of a rectangular, clear glass dining table, which rested on what looked like a hand-carved wooden base. “Dhairya always cooks too much when we have guests.” Taking a piece of naan, she dipped it into the orange curry. Following her lead, we ate with our hands—no utensils were required. It brought meaning to the phrase “licking the plate clean” because when we were done, the dishes looked like they could be wiped down and put back in the cupboard.

  “So what else is new with you? Last time we talked was what? Three months ago? And I think you were prepping for a show,” Rati said, walking us through the foyer and into the living room, where a pot of hot tea sat waiting for us. She poured us each a cup as we eased onto the couches.

  “Yup. The show was last week. It went well as far as I can tell. I sold eleven pieces,” I smiled.

  “That’s great! I have that Brooklyn Bridge piece you gave me in my room,” she said. “It’s right above my bed and I never tire of looking at it.”

  “I didn’t know you did landscapes,” Jeff said.

  “She hates them,” Rati answered. “They were the pieces she’d pawn off to tourists just to make a few bucks, but I always thought they were beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled.

  “Are you dating anyone?” Rati asked, moving the conversation swiftly into the topic I was sure she’d been waiting for all night.

  “Where are your parents?” I asked, not wanting to risk them overhearing a possibly unsavory conversation.

  “They’re out of town on business.”

  Slouching into a more comfortable position, I shrugged. “I have more important things to worry about than finding a boyfriend.”

  “Like what?” Rati asked.

  “Like my career. Love requires consideration of another person and at the moment I can only really concentrate on me,” I replied in earnest.

  “And you, Jeff?” Rati inquired.

  “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t need to be a part of girl chat. In fact, I think I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

  Jeff said goodnight and headed upstairs.

  “What does he do?” Rati asked.

  “He teaches and develops apps.” I told her about his automatic status update app, as well as the ex-girlfriend head bursting and shoe burning game apps.

  Scooting closer to me, Rati crossed her legs comfortably and said, “Go on, I want to hear everything and I mean everything.” She rolled her eyes upward with the tilt of her head to indicate I wasn’t to leave Jeff out.

  “There’s nothing happening there,” I smiled.

  “Right.”

  “Do you remember my friend Jeff from high school?”

  “Your first kiss Jeff? The one whose brother you accidentally kissed at a New Year’s Eve party?”

  “That’s the one,” I said.

  “Does he know?”

  “About the kiss or the crush?”

  “Both.”

  “I doubt he knew about the crush. As for the kiss, all these years I thought he did, but now I’m not so sure. We almost had a moment in China.”

  “You almost had a moment? Could you be anymore vague? Details, Aubs.”

  “You sound like Dr. Drew,” I laughed. Rati and I used to stay up late to listen to Loveline. “He leaned in to kiss me and I dodged it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for starters he just broke up with his fiancé like six months ago so he’s basically on the rebound.”

  “So what?” she said.

  “So I’m pretty sure that’s a recipe for disaster.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s never stopped you before,” Rati argued.

  “Yeah, and look where that’s gotten me,” I countered.

  “Speaking of Dr. Drew, I had a Loveline moment the other day,” Rati smiled. “This woman in her early forties e-mailed to ask if the burning sensation she felt when she peed was a UTI and if the UTI itself meant her husband was cheating on her.” I laughed.

  “I can almost hear Dr. Drew’s annoyed response to go see a doctor,” I said.

  “That’s basically what I told her, with a disclaimer that I wasn’t a medical doctor. If you had told me a year ago that I’d be the Dr. Drew of India I would’ve laughed at you, but here I am.”

  Her blog, Sex with Rati, was huge in India, raking in about 300,000 views a day with over 3 million subscribers via newsletters and Twitter followers, making her an actual quasi-celebrity.

  “But seriously, whatever your reservations, I think you’re doing yourself a disservice by not exploring the possibility,” she said, going back to the topic of Jeff.

  Sitting across from Rati made me nostalgic for all the times we had stayed up late together drinking chocolate milk and smoking cigarettes on the balcony of our 3rd North dorm at NYU. India might have been unfamiliar, but Rati was more than familiar—she was family, and sitting cross-legged in front of her made me want to divulge everything.

  “I’m not in a place right now for that type of complication,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going b-lind,” I replied, stumbling over the word, and realizing as the words came out that it was the first time I’d said it aloud.

  “What?” Rati said, a little too loudly.

  “Shh. Jeff doesn’t know,” I whispered.

  “What? How? When?” Rati whispered with desperation.

  “It’s called Retinitis Pigmentosa,” I swallowed. “And it’s pretty much as bad as it sounds.” My voice began to tremble. “There’s no cure. The doctor said I have about eight weeks.”

  “Are you sure? There must be something you can do,” Rati said with sincere concern.

  Before I could control it, my
eyes started to tear up and she uncrossed her legs and leaned in to envelop me in a hug as I sobbed uncontrollably into her shoulder. I cried and cried for what seemed like a long time, and when I was finally able to catch my breath I looked over at her and smiled, before saying, “So that’s my news. What’s new with you?” We both laughed nervously.

  “Do you have support? Do you need me to come stay with you?” she asked.

  “I’m not really ready for that step, or any step for that matter, but when I am you’ll be the first person I call,” I said. I smiled again, a nervous response to a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time—loss. A stubborn tear slid down my cheek and I quickly wiped it away with a tissue Rati handed me.

  “This is probably not what you want to hear, but…I still think you should tap that up there,” Rati smiled. I shook my head at her and laughed.

  Later that evening, Rati left to meet with a few women who were the subject of her next article, and Jeff and I sat on the balcony catching up on all of our social networks. With my feet propped up on a coffee table, I used my iPad to send a long e-mail to all of my close friends about the trip so far, and I attached a photo of me standing in front of the Great Wall. Then I updated my Facebook status with that same photo and 26 others from the trip that I had idly taken along the way.

  Among my favorites were a couple of panoramas and several candid photos that Jeff had e-mailed of me lurking around China as a tourist. I stopped again at the one of me leaning over the Great Wall with my arms spread across the top. Looking at the image as though it were of someone else, I found that I was moved by how peaceful yet exposed she was. He had captured all of my feelings in that moment—the fear and the calm—without knowing any of it. The image was remarkable and I knew photos like this didn’t surface often, so I cropped it, threw on a hipster filter, and posted it to all of my social media outlets.